ManicDDaily

What he spoke of

My father did not talk much
except to say, “listen to Momma,” or,
more commonly, “look at Momma,”
for my mother,
a bit of a child inhabiting her,
mandated many
look-at-me moments,
her favorite when she modeled old clothes
to show that they still fit,
or didn’t–
”gee,” holding the two flaps of
zip across a hump
of underwear-covered
hip–”was I thin back then,
or what?”

Though what he said even more frequently, to her, to me,
was “let me give you a kiss,”
which, as illness nestled throughout
his body, stoppering his
throat, bogging down
his mouth, was not always
a pure pleasure,
yet also was–
sweetness way
outweighing decay–

What he did not talk of much
was God–
This was not because he didn’t believe
but because he believed
so strongly.

Oh, he talked of Him before meals–
the Lord,
“who has given us
this bounty,”
but not the Lord
after death–the Lord, who not only giveth
but taketh away-

Because, I think, he didn’t much believe
in the “taketh away” part.

Not that he had not lost things.

But he had no doubt that what was lost
would be found.

So that when that nestling illness reared
its head, and there was talk
of next
decisions–going to the hospital or staying home
to die,
staying at the hospital or coming home
to die–
his only question ever–
“but what will happen
to Momma?”
Even in the moment that he died–
and, believe me, dying
is hard, not-breathing not
what the body
desires–it was her
he patted, consoled–knowing that she
did not hold inside
that same sure light–

I think this morning about stars,
partly because they rhyme with “are”,
and, like being and not being,
are wonders of the universe,
but too, because of a certain kind
of love (”of course, I miss him terribly,”
she says each time life’s
being managed)
whose light is seen, even after
it might be
extinguished–
these are not things that
can be readily taken off or completely
grown out of,
thankfully.

*******************************************

A poem for Claudia Schoenfeld‘s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub about using conversation/dialogue in poetry. (I’m not sure the picture quite fits, and also sorry about the rather gloomy posts, a death in my extended family this week, not of my father who died a couple of years ago, but of my very-much-loved father-in-law. I don’t feel comfortable writing of that, but it has made me think of my own dear father.)